The World of Author/Mom Alicia Murphy!

I’m sitting in a plush chair surrounded by frilly pillows on “the coloring deck” at my salon. I love this place. My white roots (yes WHITE; I can’t even call them gray. Sad commentary) vanish while I’m here, and I get to enjoy some adult conversation with Jenn, who has been doing my hair for 9 years. Best of all, salon time is ME time, which I carve out every five weeks to sit, relax, and take care of myself a bit.

Next to me sits a woman who has probably already celebrated her 85th birthday. With her gray locks in rollers, she has hobbled with her cane to sit under the dryer and get a pedicure while her hair sets.

“What can I get you to drink?” asks her beautician.
“What do ya got?” answers At Least 85. “Sprite?”
“Hmmmm, I’m not sure we have Sprite. How about a Coke?”
“Coke?!!” questioned At Least 85. “That stuff’s bad for ya!”

I’m sitting here thinking: (1) What’s really the nutritional difference between a Sprite and a Coke? and (2) When I’m At Least 85, I’m gonna drink – and eat – whatever the hell I want.

“What’d you have for lunch?” Health-Conscious At Least 85 asks Pedicurist.
“Cottage cheese.”
“With what?”
“Just cottage cheese,” answers Pedicurist. “I’m trying to watch what I eat.”
“Cottage cheese has no taste.” says At Least 85.
“You don’t think?”
“Nah-uh,” At Least 85 shakes her head as she munches on a Ritz cracker, most of which falls to the floor.

This whole scene is quite something to see and listen to. But what I love most about the whole scenario is the fact that At Least 85 is … well, at least 85, and she is still pampering herself. She deserves it. We all do.

As moms – as women – we play so many roles. We are caretakers, homemakers, teachers, nurses, consultants, chefs, therapists … just to name a few. We need to remember to take time – MAKE time – for ourselves.

So go pamper yourself! Get a massage. Enjoy your favorite ice cream cone. Read a good book (or a scandalously trashy romance novel). Sip expensive wine. Color your roots. Color your soul … with whatever makes your spirit feel warm and fuzzy.

One of my friends told me that her 5-year-old son has trouble pronouncing some of the sounds in his name, so he asked to be called “Ice” instead. I LOVE it! There are times, after a long day of hearing, “Mommy? Mommy? Mommy? Mommy? Mommy? Mommy? Mommy? Mommy? …” that I wish I could change my name too. I think I’d choose a Native American name, such as
“Wise One With Large Breasts.” Hey, a girl can dream, can’t she?

My kids and I had “a sleepover” in the family room this weekend. They laid out their sleeping bags and pillow pets on the floor. I set up camp on the couch, and I’m pretty sure I fell asleep before they did (sad commentary). Around 11:30, my daughter woke me up and asked, “Mommy, is it morning yet?” I told her it was still time to sleep, which she did promptly (after asking if we could watch TV for a while; a question to which I also answered “no”). She went right back off, but I was awake for 3 hours, solving the world’s problems and watching my children. They’re so angelic when they’re asleep. I began to ask myself things like

I wonder what I’d see if I could get into their little minds.

How do they really see me as a person? (probable answer: mostly mean, sometimes nice; mostly serious, sometimes funny; mostly grumpy, sometimes only a little grumpy).

Why are my kids happily getting along, quietly playing, and not needing me in any way, shape or form …. until I get on the phone?

How do my children know exactly which of my buttons to push to make my blood boil?

Will my kids all pick up their dad’s habit of finishing the roll of toilet paper but not replacing it?

What will their personalities be when they are teenagers, young adults, adults?

What will my children grow up to be?

How must a mom feel when her son or daughter hugs her goodbye and heads off to defend our country? How does a mom let go of that embrace? How does a mom let her child go?

With courage. Courage that she’s played hide-and-seek with her children, taught them their ABC’s, cheered at their soccer games, laughed at their jokes, listened to their fears and worries, cried at their graduations, and built them up in every way possible throughout their childhoods.

Our kids are our country’s future. God bless America, and God bless our children!

Tonight was the Garnet Valley H.S. Senior Prom.
I really don’t claim to have any idea what kids today
are doing before, during, or after an event like this.
Funny, though — one of my friends is the principal of
a local private high school and told me that at a school
function, the girl now asks the guy if he wants to dance.
If he accepts, this means that she turns her back to him,
sticks her butt out, and rocks out for the duration of
the song. She then proceeds to walk away when the song
ends. Romantic, huh?

I remember my prom date bitching while we were having
our pictures taken because he had a great buzz going,
and it was “crucial dance time.” Clearly, one can only
dance when drunk (???!!!?!?!?!?!!!).

My neighbors have filled me in on some of the unbelievable
things kids are up to at these events — for example, the
girls soak a tampon in vodka and then insert it, which
gives them a high. YIKES!!!!! This NEVER would have occurred
to me! After all, my biggest concern of the night was the fact
that my date’s prime rib wasn’t cooked enough, so he cut it up
and burned each individual piece over the candle in the center
of the table.

All I know is that my kids are presently only 7, 5, and 4, and
I plan to encourage them to:

1) Attend the prom with a FRIEND rather than a “love interest.”
2) Look (face-to-face) at the person with whom they’re dancing.
3) Avoid soaking or inserting anything anywhere — just have (innocent) fun.
4) Be safe in every meaning of the word.

Prom Night is a special night … We want our children to live it,
love it, survive it, and remember it with smiles.

Today was Field Day at my children’s school. Everyone had a blast completing a circuit of games and activities, and (most of) the teachers seemed to be enjoying it too.

I remember so clearly my own third grade Field Day. I was about to run a relay race when I tripped and fell on the concrete next to the track. My knee was scraped and bleeding, so I went over to my teacher (who was awesome) to ask if she had a band-aid. She took one look at my knee and said, “Oh Shit, Alicia!”

… Ummmmm, I had no appropriate response. I’m sure I looked at her, though, with a look that said, “You just said shit.” As she cleaned up and bandaged my knee, she asked, “Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” I answered.
“Don’t tell me that!” she yelled jokingly.
“But you asked me!” I squealed back.
“Well … Lie to me!” she barked with a smile.

Okay, my favorite teacher of all time had just cursed at me and encouraged me to lie. I loved it. She rocked.

Teachers are expected to teach not only the given academic curriculum, but to exemplify good manners, safe choices, and sportmanship (not always possible at Field Day). But teachers are human. They have lives outside of their (never-ending) jobs. They love vacations and hate cleaning bathrooms, just like everyone else. They cry at funerals and get loaded at weddings, just like everyone else. They curse, they yell, they make mistakes … just like the rest of us.

Teachers have chosen a selfless profession; they’ve dedicated themselves to creating better people. They’re in it for the outcome rather than the income. Teachers may get to go home at 3:30 and have the summer “off,” but they never truly leave their work behind. There are always plans to prepare (even in the summertime) and papers to grade. There are parent phone calls, emails, and letters to respond to. There are sleepless nighttime hours, during which teachers lie awake worrying about how to reach that unmotivated child; how to challenge that overly-motivated student; how to handle a difficult situation with a child or a parent.

As the end of the school year approaches, I feel grateful for all that my children’s teachers have done for them … and for me. I also find myself pushing aside all of those “WTF’s” that came to mind at various times since September. Teachers are leaders and caretakers. They give of themselves all day long, not always getting to eat when they’re hungry or even hit the bathroom when they need to.

Certainly there are teachers with whom we don’t see eye-to-eye. There are personalities we don’t care for and methods we don’t agree with. But teachers guide our children with patient hands, all day, every day. In a few weeks, we’ll have the opportunity to comprehend just how MUCH patience teachers need to have. Our children will be home for the summer, and there will be long days to fill, arguments to settle, and whining to stifle.

Soon WE will be the ones saying, “Oh, Shit!”

… Hug a teacher!

Had an appointment with my gyno yesterday. Always a rip-roarin’ time.
So upon entering the shower, I knew I had to do a good job
shaving my legs (as opposed to the half-assed job I usually do when I know
I’ll merely be in my husband’s presence … Poor guy). Unlike my friends
who see the same GYN doc, I’m not attracted to him. I’m don’t know why …
The guy is tall, fit, and good-looking. He also has an amazing bedside
manner, gentle hands (which is kind of a plus when you consider the “area”
he’s … “working with”), and speaks with a Spanish accent.
One of my best friends is his patient him and always says, “He could read
me the phone book and I’d sit there and listen all day long.” One of my
other friends used to get all glammed up before her appointment, which her
husband found hilarious when she was 8 months pregnant and couldn’t even
see her own feet.

Speaking of feet — back to my legs … I realized before my appoinment that
I had somehow only shaved one. Eeeeeewwwwwwww. (Maybe if someone had produced
the lawn mower I requested here the other day, I wouldn’t have shown up for my
gyno appointment (and my kids’ school, and my daughter’s dance lesson, the auto
shop and a dozen other public places today) feeling and looking like half a gorilla.

I chose not to dwell on my uneven shave, but to wear it proud. Why not let other
people wonder:

1) Does she know she’s only half-shaven?
2) Does she CARE she’s only half shaven?
3) Is she trying to make some kind of statement?
4) What exactly is that statement?

See? Good stuff.

I must admit that today I am proudly sporting 2 shaven legs. Proud of me?
Thanks, but not so fast … You haven’t seen my armpits.

My 3-year-old son told me I sound like a boy.
Possible responses that flooded my head included:

“Yes, I’ve been sleep-deprived since you were born,
first because of your need to eat all night, and
now because of your ability to make me worry about you.”

“Yes, I consume massive quantities of alcohol these days,
which isn’t good for the throat.”

“Yes, I used to be a man, but Shhhhh, Daddy doesn’t know.”

None of these replies seemed appropriate, so I just said,
“Yes, Mommy has a low voice.” Then I took my hair out of
the ponytail and put on a little more makeup.

Anyone have a lawn mower I can borrow?
The weather is finally nice, and I think I should probably shave my legs …